


Plenty

by SBG



Series: New Life [13]
Category: Emergency!
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SBG/pseuds/SBG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the trials of the last month and a half, Johnny and Roy have a lot for which to be thankful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plenty

**Author's Note:**

> A bit late, but Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate. Thanks to [LdyAnne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LdyAnne) for the post-posting typo spotting. :)

He leaned against the doorframe, waited for the Gages to make their goodbyes with Johnny and tried to make his presence as unobtrusive as possible. Roy had become practiced at that art in the past week. Once Johnny had regained consciousness, his parents had flown out to be with him and Roy had taken a backseat. He welcomed them, truly, and knew having them close was important to Johnny. At the same time, their being around also meant less time for him with Johnny and he was selfish. His resentment was unfair and he knew it, especially since they were incredibly nice people. He just wanted to be able to hold Johnny’s hand and talk openly, and he could do neither with the Gages there. As it was, they probably wondered why he was around so much. The sad thing was, even if they weren’t there, he’d still not be able to be there for Johnny the way he wanted, the way both of them needed. 

Roy could spend forever thinking about the things he and Johnny would never have the way a more traditional couple would, when what he needed to focus on was what they did. Johnny was alive. He was going to be okay. That was immeasurable.

From his vantage point at the door, Roy looked at his partner’s hands, one moving animatedly and one clumsily. It was the perfect representation of how bittersweet his recovery was going, good and bad working together almost seamlessly. Roy wanted to smile, didn’t.

Johnny couldn’t remember most of October, and in a way Roy was glad for it. The missing time was alarming for Johnny inasmuch as he could understand it, but when that time involved threats leading to brutality, it was probably better if he never remembered. Roy remembered it all, in vivid, damning color. It was why he had this burning need to check on his lover as often as he could, though he had to return to work. Spending every waking moment with Johnny wasn’t possible after that first awful week, and not just because his parents were there. Everyone had understood while Johnny hovered between life and death that, yes, Roy wouldn’t leave his side. There was a limit to that kind of commitment. But mentally, he hadn’t even left Johnny during the last week with Bob and Irene Gage there, and mentally being there had tided him over well enough.

He could see on Johnny’s bruised face how much he wished he could take his parents to the airport himself. It was a similar frustrated expression to when Johnny tried to speak his thoughts and couldn’t get the words to flow properly. Roy knew the speech pathologist was optimistic at the strides Johnny had already made, but at the same time sympathized with Johnny’s point of view. As difficult as it was to watch someone struggle like that, it had to be a million times more challenging to be the one struggling. He found himself often wanting to correct Johnny, prod him along, but doing so would only impede his progress and make it seem as though Roy was condescending to the condition. At the heart of it, Roy would take Johnny any way he could get him and this slightly more difficult to understand version was infinitely better than no version at all. 

He watched Irene shake her head at something Johnny said, then cup the unbruised side of Johnny’s face gently and run her hand atop Johnny’s head. Roy cringed. It was a stupid thing to be bothered by, but he couldn’t help it. There Johnny was, face bruised so badly that even after a couple of weeks he didn’t quite look like himself, though at least both of his eyes were open now. Johnny had a brace on his leg, a bandage still thick and white on his head and none of that held a candle to the slight aphasia and potentially career-ending weakness on the left side of his body. The bottom line was, there were so many more troubling things to be upset about than a poorly shorn head of hair and yet every time Roy looked at Johnny without that trademark shaggy hair he was always so proud of, a pit formed in his stomach. 

He knew, somewhere deep inside, that the obsession about Johnny’s hair or lack of it was merely a strange coping mechanism. He also knew it wasn’t about the hair at all. Roy ducked out of the room, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe the air in there. Johnny and his parents could use the privacy anyway. He took several steadying breaths once he wasn’t looking at Johnny anymore. He had to find a way to deal with his reactions better. Johnny needed him there, not hiding from the monsters only he could see. He spent several minutes propped up against the wall before he felt a warm touch to his elbow. He turned to find the Gages peering at him. Both of them looked exhausted and faded, as if they’d expended all of their energy saying goodbye. They probably had; it was nothing like what Johnny was going through, but being strong when one wanted to fall apart was taxing in its own right. He knew this all too well. 

“You ready?” Roy asked, choosing not to mention their weariness. “We should get there with plenty of time for your flight if we leave now.”

“I wouldn’t say ready is the exact word to use,” Bob said. “We hate to leave him, especially right before Thanksgiving. We could have planned it better, it’s just … ”

Bob looked faintly ill. 

“I know.” Roy shifted between his feet, not uncomfortable but certainly not at ease. “But it’s good you came even for a little while. I think it really bolstered his spirits.”

Both of them gave him watery smiles, the emotions on their faces a mixture of happiness, that same tiredness and fear. Roy supposed he looked exactly the same way, maybe worse, and stared down at the floor until Irene squeezed his elbow.

“We don’t know how to thank you enough, Roy,” Irene said, the warmth in her eyes so like Johnny’s it was plain to see he was his mother’s son. She shifted her hand from Roy’s elbow to his forearm and began walking. “I wish we could stay longer, but knowing you’re around to help take care of our boy is a huge load off of my mind. Off both of our minds.”

“He’s my partner,” Roy said with a shrug, as if what Johnny was to him could be encapsulated so simply. 

They seemed to accept it. Irene patted his arm and murmured something about the bond between all firefighters. Roy wanted to correct her, hated that he couldn’t. In the end, he just muttered something about Johnny being special, which was absolutely the truth. At the hospital entrance, the Gages hesitated and Roy had to usher them out to the parking lot and to his family car. He couldn’t fault them for that. He felt like that every time he visited and eventually had to go home. 

The drive to the airport was filled mostly with inane chatter, none of them wanting to discuss the implications of Johnny’s injuries or how he might not recover completely from all of them. That was something Roy couldn’t let himself think about, and he hoped it would be easier for them, being able to not see it every day. Instead, Roy managed to pull a few more stories from the Gages of Johnny’s misspent youth. While it was true their visit had made him nervous in some regards, it also gave him insight into Johnny that he wouldn’t have otherwise had. For some reason, John didn’t talk much about his upbringing and Roy had always assumed it had been filled with strife or pain. It was a relief to find that wasn’t the case at all. 

He walked them to the gate, and was genuinely sad to leave them there. Bob offered him an awkward handshake and a slap to his shoulder. To his surprise, Irene pulled him into a tight hug. Roy had no choice but to wrap his arms around her.

“I know you’ll take care of him,” she whispered in his ear. “I can see how much you care.”

“I do. He’s really important to me and my kids,” Roy said, the closest he was probably ever going to get to stating his true feelings. 

In this world of theirs, it was better than many got.

eEe!

Johnny had missed his parents the second they stepped out of his room with one last glance back at him, but had also relaxed for the first time since they had arrived. It wasn’t fair to feel that way, he knew. They loved him and it had been good to see them, even with the self-imposed added pressure he felt to get better when they were around. They’d never once expressed anything but care and support, of course, but he didn’t like them seeing him like this. It distressed him to see their distress.

He didn’t like how incapacitated he was yet, how he couldn’t communicate the way he wanted to. 

The words made sense in his head and came out in such a jumble it made him want to hurl whatever he could get his working hand on across the room. Most of all, it made him want to hide under a blanket, for every verbal misstep he made reflected on everyone’s faces as pity and he hated seeing that. Still, he might have been able to handle the word scramble, but that wasn’t his only hurdle. There was also his muscle weakness and lack of motor control in his left arm, hand and leg, and all together it was too much. 

He put on a brave face whenever any of his friends visited. Since it was most important with his parents, he’d had so much practice during their weeklong stay that Johnny was positive no one could see past the mask. But keeping it up added a layer of exhaustion to his task of simply living with the physical pain of what had happened to him. 

The story of how he’d ended up in the hospital had been told to him several times, bits and pieces of it slipping out of focus and into the gaping hole that was his memory often before it finally stuck. Johnny didn’t feel like he’d missed anything, in a way, and it almost seemed like it hadn’t been him who’d been threatened and beaten within an inch of his life even as he bore the evidence of it in his stilted speech and physical weakness. He clung to that distance, because the faces that accompanied that story were even worse than the ones he saw after saying all the wrong words the wrong way. It scared him, to be sure, that what had been done to him had left him like this, but there was strange comfort in not remembering the experience. Seeing Roy’s haunted expression when he thought Johnny was too out of it to notice was more than enough. 

“Okay, John, let’s do this again,” Doctor Texley said patiently.

Doctor Texley was a sadistic torturer and John hated him. He was number two on the list of most hated people, behind only his physical therapist, who insisted on manipulating his weak limbs far too often, citing a need to do so even if Johnny couldn’t walk yet. The only way Texley didn’t make the top of the list was the somewhat redeeming quality of his complete, objective reactions to the speech flubs Johnny committed. As far as the slender, slightly balding doctor was concerned, they weren’t impediments, they were challenges to overcome and he was the one to make it happen. Johnny was tired. An hour of speech therapy was incredibly draining, and he had a minimum of an hour and a half to do every day. By the last five minutes, Johnny was generally in a foul mood and he knew that wasn’t good. He needed to stay positive. He knew the first weeks of recovery were the most crucial. 

“No,” Johnny said stubbornly, grateful that this word never failed him.

“Yes,” Texley said and began tapping his mallet against the small xylophone in a simple rhythm. “You’re doing well, John. After this we’re done for the day, okay?”

Johnny sighed and nodded, knowing the man wouldn’t relent. It was his job to push. He let the melodic chime of the xylophone wash over him once, then opened his mouth and chanted along, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten”, in rising pitch. It was easy. He was still as tone deaf as they came, but he could sing the numbers so well, and the ascending pitch always gave him so much hope. He watched Doctor Texley put the mallet down and hold up a hand, index and middle finger lifted.

“How many fingers?” 

_Two,_ Johnny thought, _and that’s a stupid question_ but said, “Hat.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, angry. The humiliating thing, John had decided after his first two sessions with the speech pathologist, was knowing that the tests were all so simple a three-year-old could answer them accurately and there he was saying random things. Two was on the tip of his tongue. Two was what he said inside of his head, and he knew it wasn’t his fault but it made him so frustrated. He opened his eyes and saw the doctor looking at him placidly, calm as ever.

“Try again,” Texley said, giving him a different set of fingers.

“Thu…” Johnny swallowed. His tongue felt too thick, not part of his condition but the stress of it all and his tiredness that had accumulated into a strange symptom. “Three.”

“There you go. Very good, John.” Texley leaned forward, elbows on knees. He eyed Johnny thoughtfully. “You’ve made great progress in the last few days.”

It didn’t feel like it. That brave façade of his was starting to crack and crumble, he could tell. Every day, it was the same exercises and the same results as far as Johnny could tell. He scowled his disbelief. He could come down here, sing to ten and sing happy fucking birthday until his face turned blue, but at the end of it, he couldn’t say two.

“I understand how you might be able to rely on your facial expressions to communicate. For as injured as you were, you’ve always been good at imparting meaning that way. Don’t. Don’t cease trying to speak because you think it’s not going well.” Texley rose, patted Johnny on the shoulder. “I want you to tell me that from now until your session tomorrow, you will use your words.”

Had Johnny mentioned this guy was a sadist?

“School, you … ah, you, me … work,” Johnny blurted, feeling his face redden. “Kid. Not a … first grade. Ah.”

“Yes, homework, and yes, I know you’re not a child,” Texley said with a nod. “It’s the next step, for which you are quite ready. The more you try, the easier it’ll become.”

Johnny was not so sure. He’d go so far as to say he was absolutely sure he was not ready, actually. He realized all of a sudden, though, that he had been remaining silent as much as possible. He hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to anyone but Texley since his mom and dad left yesterday. It was almost as if Texley knew that. He probably did, Johnny reasoned sourly. Rampart’s walls had eyes and ears. 

“Ah … will … ah, okay.”

Randy, the orderly who usually helped him to and from his speech and physical therapies breezed into the room right on schedule. He was there primarily for support now, as the incision from the abdominal surgery was healing remarkably well according to Brackett. The residual weakness on his left side was not as bad as they’d first thought, and Johnny’s right knee had improved to the point he could lean heavily on a walker and shuffle along like a geriatric. It was disconcerting, but miles better than the wheelchair he’d been confined to for the first week. Two days of walker use wasn’t a lot. It left him shaky, weak and even more drained than the speech therapy alone had caused, and by the time they made it back to his room, all Johnny could do was collapse onto the bed and try not to clutch at his throbbing side. 

“Getting faster, man,” Randy said as he helped shift Johnny into a comfortable position. “I’ll let the duty nurse know you’re back right in time for dinner.”

“Urgh,” Johnny said, tired of the same bland food. It felt like his stomach was the only part of him that hadn’t been injured, and yet it was being punished. “Food.”

“I hear ya.” Randy winked. “Tell you what. I’ll arrange to come back for your tray and bring you something tasty for dessert.”

“Pal, you, ah. Good. Good.”

Randy smiled and backed away from the bed, only spinning around when he reached the door. He jerked back, nearly ran into someone coming in. 

“Whoa, hey.”

Johnny laughed at the orderly’s dramatic arm waving, and his mirth softened into something else when he saw who it was. It was his reason to get up in the morning, to keep trying no matter how challenging it was. The man approaching his bed with a soft, sad smile on his face was everything, really.

“Ruh.” Johnny cleared his throat, irritated that he still couldn’t say this without stuttering first. But when he did, he meant so much more than three little letters strung together in a particular order. “Roy.”

eEe!

“I don’t want you living there anymore,” Roy said, looking at Johnny’s hands instead of his face, the fuzz of hair on his head. “It isn’t safe. This is a good solution.”

“No.”

It wasn’t an argument he wanted to have, especially the day before Johnny was to be released into his care, the day before Thanksgiving. The very last thing he wanted to do was fight or cause Johnny any more pain. The transition would be easy; Johnny would spend his recuperative months at the DeSoto house anyway, so why not extend that into a permanent situation? Given everything, no one would bat an eye and it was an opportunity they would never have again. Yes, he was selfishly taking the idea as a silver lining to the horrible events that had transpired. Besides, everyone knew how Johnny had helped him after Joanne’s accident, how Roy would help Johnny now. It made sense and he couldn’t bear the stubborn set of Johnny’s jaw.

“John.”

He supposed from Johnny’s perspective, this was out of the blue. It might even seem like coddling, but it wasn’t. This was a good chance for them to be together as a family and he needed to convince Johnny of that and not think about the impetus behind the idea, which had been born from unfortunate circumstances.

Roy, Mike and Chet had finally gone out to Johnny’s place the day the Gages left for home, to take stock and clean up. The police had finally cleared it for them, and truthfully, Roy had simply not thought about it while Johnny was so perilously close to death. The wreckage had been even more awful in the broad light of day, the two-week lapse between Halloween night and then having done nothing to soften it. The pumpkin display at the front of the house was rotting and smelly, the graffiti Mike hadn’t gotten to in the back as vibrant and hateful as ever and, Jesus, the dried spot of blood where Johnny had lain made him ill even thinking of it. The moment he’d set foot in the backyard again, Roy had known in his gut he would do anything to keep Johnny from living there alone. No matter how much Johnny loved his home, it was tainted now.

It had hit him so hard he felt like he’d relived that night all over again. The only thing that had kept him upright was a strong arm across his shoulders, a kind word murmured in his ear. Mike Stoker had turned out to be the support Roy needed when Johnny couldn’t be. 

“No,” Johnny said, then made a deeply unhappy sound in the back of his throat. “My, mine … door … and … door … it, Ruh-Roy.”

“Johnny, please,” Roy whispered. “I know you worked so hard to buy that property. I know you worked so hard to get it just how you like it. And I know you don’t remember, but please, I can’t … you … it’s …”

He looked up and tried not to show how hurt Johnny’s vehement rejection was. The way the anger in his lover’s eyes bled out instantly in exchange for something else, something too heartbreaking to name cut through him as surely as the physical remnants of the attack still lingering on Johnny’s body. It also told him Johnny got it, and wasn’t trying to hurt him.

“Okay.” Roy sighed, took Johnny’s right hand in his for a brief squeeze only. “I don’t want to argue. We’re supposed to be celebrating you getting out of here. Just think about it, okay?”

“Will … I … Ruh,” Johnny said. “Roy.”

Johnny’s release from the hospital was a technicality, really, as he’d still have to come to Rampart for speech and physical therapy for hours every day. Roy knew it was a huge relief for Johnny to not have to stay, though, and he couldn’t agree more. The few times he’d been laid up in the hospital himself made him all the more grateful for what he had at home. This was precisely why he wanted Johnny to come live with him, accept that. Well, he had to admit, it was part of it. It was silly of him, but the need to see Johnny had morphed into a need to be there for him, all the time. It wasn’t any healthier than John’s flat-out refusal, he realized with a sad smile. What a pair they made.

“Listen, uh, I hope you don’t mind,” Roy said, deciding to change the topic. No way was that conversation over, though, only postponed. “I invited the guys over for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Yeah … dinner? Uh, you and kids … tomorrow … drum … yes, stick … how … ah,” Johnny said, then scowled and ran a hand over his head.

Roy smiled. He’d had the chance to speak with Doctor Texley on occasion when his visits came at the start or end of Johnny’s speech sessions, and agreed with the doctor that Johnny had come a huge way since the first few scary days when nothing he said made any sense at all. It hadn’t manifested right away, or they hadn’t recognized it as aphasia because at first Johnny’s words had been stilted and slurred, but coherent. It degraded, though, and became so apparent Roy could remember feeling like he’d been stabbed in the eye with a knitting needle every time Johnny tried to talk. So, yeah, comparatively, Johnny was doing great. He definitely behaved more like himself; depression was common in patients with this form of aphasia, and Johnny had not exhibited any signs of it yet. Despite speech being a very emotionally draining experience for him, he was holding up well. 

“Their families, too, and Brackett, Early, Morton and Dixie, but not everyone can make it. I think Brackett and Dix are back on again, so they have _plans_.” 

Johnny laughed and shook his head.

Roy grinned. It wasn’t true, but it was a running joke around Rampart. Brackett was going back east to visit family and Dixie had volunteered at a soup kitchen for many years, though she might stop by the DeSoto house later in the evening. 

“Everyone who can come is bringing something so no one has to spend all day sweating in the kitchen. It’ll be great, but if you’d rather it just be us and Chris and Jenny, that’s all right. Everyone knows we might pull a switcheroo.”

“Pie?” Johnny looked so young and hopeful Roy almost didn’t feel that jab of hurt about the hair. Almost. “Wife … Mike or, ah, Cap … er, pie.”

“Lisa’s bringing it, I think,” Roy said. “Mike swears her pumpkin chiffon is like eating a little slice of heaven.”

“Eat … pie … good, good … two,” Johnny said, then sat up straight and laughed. He grabbed at Roy’s arm and fumbled happily with it, ended up with his fingers wrapped in Roy’s hand. “Two, Ruh-Roy! Two, two, two.”

The pure joy illuminated Johnny’s face so brightly Roy was sure if they turned out all the lights in this wing of the hospital, everyone would think they were still on. Johnny’s laughter was infectious, as well and Roy started laughing right along with him. He also knew not being able to say the word two had become Johnny’s own strange obsession, what a milestone uttering that stupid little word was. He forgot where they were for a moment, standing and wrapping his arms around Johnny’s shoulders. 

“You can definitely have two slices,” Roy said through his chuckles and a very tight throat.

They were still laughing and holding each other when the sound of someone’s throat clearing pulled them apart. Roy didn’t have it in him to care, except he still felt a rush of blood hit his face. He twisted and looked at the door, sobered immediately. He frowned at Detective Crockett there. Off and on since Johnny had been attacked, the detective had shown up in the hopes he would remember some details. It was as if the LAPD didn’t understand the effects of a major head trauma that were constantly being demonstrated to them when they asked stupid questions, or thought Johnny would wake up one day with both memory and the ability to relay it. 

“Detective Crockett,” Roy said. “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but for the hundredth time, Johnny doesn’t remember and I can’t tell you anything more.”

Crockett fiddled with the bow of his glasses. He shifted the frames up his nose in a nervous manner, then lifted his hands out in front of him. He dropped his arms, shifted his shoulders and the sleeves of his suit coat and tipped his chin up slightly.

“I’m not here for that, DeSoto,” Crockett said. He appeared distinctly ill at ease. “I actually have news and when you didn’t answer your home phone, I took a chance you’d be here. And here you are.”

News. Roy’s legs suddenly felt weak. He sneaked a glance at Johnny, who didn’t appear overexcited by his newfound ability to say the word two anymore. Roy had tried to explain the situation to Johnny, but he still wasn’t sure how much of it had sunk in. He had also tried not to show his own distress about it. He was sure now, all of a sudden, that he hadn’t done a great job of it. Johnny was looking at him with such worry it hurt.

“Would you like to hear this as well, Gage? It’s up to you,” Crockett said.

Johnny nodded dumbly. He was good at maintaining the awkward verbalization with friends, but grew self-conscious with those he didn’t know so well. 

“We caught the kids who did this to you.” Crockett stepped further into the room. “Your neighbor to the north has a fifteen-year-old with a recent involvement with the wrong crowd, as it were. We’d had him on the hot list since night one.”

“Tuh,” Johnny said, breaths coming faster. “You … Trent … ah, you … kid … positive … not, no.”

Roy grabbed for his lover’s hand. He knew the kid. They both knew the kid pretty well. Over the past year or so, Trent Barber had helped maintain Johnny’s yard during their on-shift days, and had collected Johnny’s mail when he headed for the mountains or to visit his parents. Roy slumped into the chair, head reeling. He’d, Jesus, he’d _known_ it was someone close, but a kid. And one that had been so nice and helpful. He couldn’t get it to make any sort of sense in his head. The only thing that did make sense was convincing Johnny that he couldn’t live there anymore. 

“There’s no mistake?” Roy asked.

“He confessed and we’re working on the rest of them. He had help,” Crockett said. “I’m sorry to report he had some very unpleasant things to say about you, Gage. Things that will remain in his sealed juvenile record and away from scuttlebutt. As of right now, it seems pretty clear it was all part of some gang initiation.”

Both Roy and Johnny gaped at Crockett, who stared with some disconcertion at their clasped hands.

eEe!

His mood was abysmal, and that was putting it mildly. Johnny hadn’t slept all night, too wound up with the news that Trent Barber, who’d always been willing to lend him a hand for a modest wage, had apparently hated him so much he’d called in some friends, beat him and left him for dead in his own backyard. The distance he had managed regarding the incident closed considerably as he thought of all the times he’d chatted and joked with the boy, never knowing the true colors that lurked below the surface were ugly and dark. He remembered even thinking how Trent would be a great role model for Chris DeSoto. It made him sick in his heart to consider that now.

That didn’t even touch on the fact that Detective Crockett had insinuated very carefully that he and a handful of other detectives knew that the attack had been spurred by homophobia. He had also insinuated carefully that everyone was on board with the gang ritual idea, leaving the detail out of it, in deference to Johnny’s public service and general reputation as a decent guy. The thing was, though, Johnny couldn’t know that was true. If he closed his eyes, he could see Crockett staring at him and Roy like they were bugs under a microscope. He didn’t remember getting beaten physically, but now had to live in greater proportions with the dread of getting beaten in other ways. 

Johnny didn’t know how or why love should ever result in this kind of hate and fear from others.

He heard the sound of voices approaching the hospital room he was more than ready to vacate. He couldn’t dwell about Trent Barber or the worry of more people learning his and Roy’s secrets now. He had to force it from his mind, because it was Thanksgiving, damn it, and he was alive. Johnny was alive and loved and he had something besides pressed turkey roll, boxed mashed potatoes and suspiciously glossy pumpkin-colored dessert compliments of Rampart’s kitchen to eat. He knew from experience, just not the specifics of the most recent events, that the darker parts of life would always be there to revisit and that the bright spots should be cherished all the more because of them.

He’d said two yesterday. 

The smile was firmly set on his face by the time Chris and Jenny rounded the door, shouldering at each other to be the first in the room. Johnny’s smile grew. Talk about bright spots. He was, frankly, amazed at how easily the kids had gone from very upset and confused by his current speech condition to accepting, sweet and kind. If the adult world could retain that youthful ability to adapt so rapidly, then it would be a much better place. 

“Happy Thanksgiving, Uncle Johnny!” they both shouted in unison. 

The kids commenced to throw themselves at the bed where he sat perched and waiting, and had been for about half an hour. Johnny hugged them back with as much ferocity as his weakened left arm allowed and watched the door for their father. Roy lingered there, a tender expression on his face saying much more than words ever could. Johnny ruffled Chris’s hair and kissed the top of Jenny’s head, eyes never leaving Roy. In the whirlwind of trauma that had become his life, Johnny had this. He would always have this, he thought, and it was far more than enough. His life was plentiful with good things.

“We’re making turkey,” Chris said as he and Jenny disengaged from the hug. “Come on, are you ready?”

His stomach growled so loudly, everyone in the room heard it and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. 

“Bird … ah … mmm and … er … potatoes … eat,” Johnny said and patted his belly.

“Marco’s mom is sending over some of her spiced yams with him,” Roy said. “And the house already smells great. Bet you’re looking forward to getting out of here, so let’s not waste anymore time.”

Johnny didn’t have to be told twice. He didn’t even _like_ yams, but the sentiment behind Marco’s contribution to the meal made him eager and nervous at the same time. He could almost taste the turkey, the richness of gravy on mashed potatoes. He knew he’d have to pace himself and probably not get to eat everything, but he was beyond ready. He was also aware it wasn’t really about the meal. It was about that feeling he already had coursing through his veins, of love and security and things that couldn’t be named, only experienced.

The four of them garnered some very endearing looks as they made their way to the desk to complete discharge paperwork, then out to the car. Johnny had submitted to the wheelchair for speed’s sake alone, but he had to admit it was amusing to have Chris and Jenny push him around like he was their personal plaything, and he was apparently not alone in that amusement. Roy kept a hand on Johnny’s shoulder the whole way, perhaps to monitor the kids or perhaps for another reason. 

They were soon zipping away toward Roy’s house, Jenny insisting Johnny sit with her in the back seat. With every city block they traveled, the more Johnny’s nerves increased. This was a huge step, the hustle and bustle of a house crammed with people overwhelming on a good day. He hadn’t really seen everyone together. Their visits to the hospital had been staggered so as not to overwhelm him. 

“I drew you a picture,” Jenny said, sounding shy all of a sudden. She nestled against his right side, warmth seeping into him. She said more quietly, “I brought it with because Chet’s already at our house and you know how he is about mushy stuff. He’s worse than Chris.”

“Basket,” Johnny said, thinking _thank you_ and _you’re my girl_ and wishing like hell he could say those things and more. 

Jenny wrinkled her nose as she clearly tried to figure out what he meant, but after a moment just shrugged and pulled a sheet of paper from beside her. It was a simple sketch, small tents nestled amid some sharply triangular mountains. Four figures stood in front of the tents, two men and two kids. They were all smiling, one of them crookedly and oh, his heart was going to burst right there. He pointed at the clouds dotting a crayoned sky.

“I like the sky.” Jenny said and slipped her hand into his. “It’s so blue, especially up in the mountains when you take us camping. That’s the best.”

“Yeah.” Johnny nodded. He squeezed her hand, ignored the jolt of pain when her leg brushed too closely against his knee. “Yeah.”

He glanced up and saw Roy turning his attention back to the road from a sidelong look into the backseat. Johnny caught his lover’s eyes in the rearview and he gave a small head bob. It was safe to say his morning mood had improved vastly in just a few minutes, and he vowed to not give any more headspace to Trent Barber or what-ifs that may never be on this day. Beside him, Jenny began to sing softly and Johnny wondered if she knew music was important to help him, if communicating with song and pictures both helped him. He’d have to borrow some crayons and paper to tell her everything he wanted to.

“Over the river and through the woods,” she sang.

And Johnny joined her, keeping his voice quiet so as not to offend anyone with his inability to carry a tune. The ray-of-sunshine smile that earned him made him raise his voice slightly and to his surprise, Roy and Chris both started singing as well. It felt so good, being able to put words together without hitching or having them make no sense whatsoever. It didn’t even matter to him that they weren’t _his_ words and if he wanted he could probably sing everything. Texley said that was okay sometimes, but Johnny was stubborn. He wanted to _talk_.

The singing brought them all the way to the house. Johnny picked out all the cars, saw that Chet had been joined by the rest of the A-shift crew and their families, as well as Mike Morton. He rubbed his left hand clumsily down the front of his jeans, nervousness returning.

“Alec and Marty’re here,” Chris said, and was out of the car practically before Roy had pulled to a stop. 

Chris tore around the front yard with Mike Stoker’s boys, whooping and hollering, before Roy, Johnny and Jenny could even blink. The rowdy sound of boys playing set the tone for the rest of the afternoon. Johnny’s entrance was greeted by a rousing chorus of hellos, and he laughed out loud when Chet’s girlfriend Lucinda brazenly looked him up and down as if he were a fine specimen right now. He was impressed with Chester B’s ability to hold onto that spitfire of a woman. They were perfectly suited. He laughed harder when Chet blustered and pulled at Lucinda’s arm to keep her from getting her grabby hands on Johnny. 

It took all of fifteen minutes before Johnny found a corner and tucked into it, overwhelmed by the noise and smells and amazing thrill of energy charging the house way too small for the number of people in it. He was damned glad no one treated him like anything but their friend, and mostly without drawing attention to his inability to talk and joke with them as he’d like. Johnny had a few moments where he wanted to slip upstairs and hide, but with frequent check-ins from everyone, Roy and Mike most especially, he didn’t have the chance. 

And it was good. He was good. This was good. As the afternoon turned to evening and he was stuffed with food and affection alike, he started to think about what it would be like to stay in this home forever. It startled him to find his independent streak was not as strong as he had once thought. By the time the pie came around, Johnny was bone tired, happy and well on his way to formulating a plan to sell the house he loved but Roy now, understandably, hated.

“Can I grab you a piece of pie?” Lisa Stoker asked him.

“Two,” Johnny said, held up two fingers and beamed, though she could have no idea why that made him so pleased. 

From across the room, Johnny saw Roy focused completely on him, expression warm and face flushed from the wine and perhaps something else entirely.

eEe!

Roy nudged Mike’s elbow after he found a comfortable position next to the man on the edge of the platform deck Johnny had helped him build. The backyard was a bastion of quiet compared to inside, the noise of conversation and laughter a dull roar muffled by distance and walls. The sun was well past the horizon, the hazy blue of night had settled over the city. He was exhausted, but for the first time in nearly three weeks it was a good feeling rather than a bad one. He had spent all day forgetting about Crockett’s visit, and it was starting to creep back into his mind now. He supposed it was because Mike knew about him and Johnny.

“Today was a good day,” Mike said. 

“It was. One of the best in a long time.” 

Roy felt full and content in a way he hadn’t since the beginning of October, and that was in no small part due to the man sitting next to him. He had no idea how he could ever express exactly what Mike’s quiet support had come to mean to him, let alone attempt to repay it. He smiled ruefully to himself, remembering how at first he’d thought Mike’s concern was a threat. Turned out he’d had no clue how to tell actual threat from friendly advice, and that had never been more apparent than when Johnny had started getting notes of his own. And with that thought, he lost his smile.

“Johnny’s looking pretty healthy, all things considered.”

“I can’t get used to his hair like that,” Roy blurted, then turned away, embarrassed. 

It sounded even more stupid out loud, especially since he’d had no intention of saying those words to anyone, ever. There was something about Mike, Roy guessed, and he was grateful for that even if he was currently mortified. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and was not surprised at all when Mike’s hand landed on his shoulder, squeezed briefly and then vanished.

“Yeah, it’s different.” Mike gave a little chuckle. He mirrored Roy’s position. “I’ll bet he hates it.”

Johnny didn’t seem to have an opinion nearly as strong as Roy’s, but then it was difficult to tell. He hadn’t said anything, but Roy wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t care or because he had no way to let it out. 

“I think he’s glad to be alive, and I am glad for that too. I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that damn peach fuzz thing he’s got going on.”

“Hair grows back, Roy.”

“It does. I know that. And I know it’s dumb to feel the way I do. He’s made remarkable progress,” Roy said, a familiar shiver of thankfulness skittering down his spine. He had to remember that feeling the next time he let upset about hair of all things get to him. “Doctor Brackett said they’re optimistic that he could make a full recovery.”

“That’s really great, Roy,” Mike said. “Excellent. We’re all hoping so. It’s too quiet around the stationhouse without him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

He and Mike sat shoulder to shoulder, neither of them speaking. Roy found the silence comforting and he lost himself in it for a while. Today had been a good day, indeed, but he was about ready to have his house back, his family together under one roof. 

Roy couldn’t say how long it had been, but his and Mike’s retreat was interrupted by the sudden shout for him from inside the house. He might or might not have panicked and bolted inside, heart in his throat as he sought out Johnny. Who sat dozing in the same chair he’d occupied for hours. Roy slumped against whatever was closest, which turned out to be Hank Stanley.

“You all right there, pal?” Cap said, peering down at him in concern, holding Roy up easily.

“I thought,” Roy said. He looked around, horrified to see everyone was watching him. He broke from Cap’s hold to stand on his own two feet. “Nothing, never mind.”

“We just wanted to let you know we’re all going to head out.” Cap pointed at John, then at other various child-sized lumps around the living room. He casually steered the whole gang, sans Mike Morton who’d left an hour ago, toward the front door. “I think we’ve stayed a bit past our welcome.” 

“No, it’s early yet.”

“Nothing personal, babe, some of us have other things to be thankful for tonight,” Chet said and must have done something tasteless, as Lucinda let out a tiny little squeal and jumped in the air. 

“That’s real classy, Chet,” Marco grumbled as he moved to Roy’s side, where he imparted a brief, one-armed hug. “ _Hasta luego, mi amigo._ ” 

All the others took a cue from Marco, and Roy found himself passed around the small front room for hugs and a moderately sharp goose from Lucinda. That resulted in exaggerated outrage from Chet, laughter from everyone else and an intense blush in Roy’s cheeks. He’d be glad Johnny and the kids had been asleep for that, except when he looked toward the living room he saw them all standing there sleepy-eyed, ruffled and beautiful. Johnny was smiling at him crookedly. Roy took a mental picture, and it wasn’t until a moment later that he realized the only thing his gut felt when he looked at John’s hair was full from the good meal he’d shared with these wonderful people. 

“Car … ah … everyone … go,” Johnny said. “Time.”

“John,” someone or more than one someone called out.

The hug treatment was promptly given to Johnny, then, and after that suddenly the house went from teeming with bustle and people to quiet. Roy sagged, but only for a moment. There was cleanup to handle, both of the house and of his kids, who looked so droopy and tired he thought it might be okay just this once to skip the teeth brushing before letting them collapse into bed. He knew that was a good call when both of them gave Johnny a hug before heading upstairs. Roy touched Johnny’s arm as he passed, let his hand linger for a bit. Johnny smiled. When Roy came back down from tucking the kids to bed ten minutes later, bracing himself for an hour of scrubbing dishes, he found Johnny in the already-clean kitchen, eating leftover pie directly from the tin.

“Mmmph,” Johnny said, mouth full.

Roy ran his hand across Johnny’s head gently as he walked by and didn’t dislike the sensation. He tugged the shade down on the kitchen window and joined Johnny at the table. He snared the fork from his lover’s hand and dug in. He was not hungry, but for some reason Johnny’s sheer enjoyment of the dessert made him want it as well. They polished off the pie, taking turns with the fork and Roy felt so filled with peace he was fit to burst. He pulled the fork and empty pie plate from Johnny, stood and rinsed both at the sink. 

As he dried his hands on a towel that had clearly been instrumental in the cleanup effort given how damp it was. Roy dropped it on the counter when he felt Johnny step up behind him, arms wrapping around his belly. He was glad the shade was shut, so Johnny couldn’t see a reflection of what was surely a melancholic look that came over his face. One arm holding him was stronger than the other. The regret lasted only a second. Johnny was _there_ to hold him, and he’d been so damn scared of never having that again he could not waste time feeling bad Johnny wasn’t one hundred percent fit yet.

“Johnny,” he said, voice thick. 

Roy twisted a bit awkwardly, their arms tangling until they sorted each other out and stood face to face in a loose embrace. He was incredibly aware of Johnny’s injuries, careful not to brush against his right knee or side, and from so close he could see the fatigue in the faint lines around Johnny’s eyes. But he saw so much more, too. There were times they didn’t need words. He left out a sigh and leaned his forehead against Johnny’s, and they stayed that way for a few minutes, just breathing and being in the same space. 

Johnny moved first, limbs shaky and obviously stressed too much for one day, but very surefooted as he stepped back and shifted out of Roy’s hold. He took Roy by the hand and led him through the house, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to rest. Considering he’d barely been getting around with a walker only a few days ago, the feat was remarkable.

“You should sleep down here,” Roy murmured.

His words only sparked determination in John, whose shoulders straightened as he resumed the journey. He was silent and steadfast on the way to the bedroom, right hand strong as ever around Roy’s left. When he got there, though, he sank down on the bed as if every ounce of energy had been drained right out of him. Except that wasn’t strictly true, and with what Johnny had left in him, he tugged on Roy’s hand until they were sprawled together. Johnny smiled beatifically, squirmed around, seeking a comfortable position on his left side, while Roy helped scoot him over so he could lie down as well, facing Johnny.

“Roy,” Johnny said, no stutter. His hand shifted downward, pressed against Roy’s belly, low. He sang, “I love you.”

In that moment, nothing that had come before mattered at all. There wasn’t room for the horrible when there was so much for which to be thankful. Roy smiled, leaned into Johnny’s touch. He wanted to sob and laugh, didn’t know which urge was stronger. He did neither. He did both. He didn’t know what he did, only that when he finally stopped doing whatever he’d been doing, his face was buried in the crook of Johnny’s neck and he was shaking all over. A hand stroked at the back of his neck, and Johnny had pulled them closer together. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t the hurt one, he was the one who was supposed to give support and care here. 

“Johnny,” he said and breathed deeply. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re home.”

Johnny sighed and pressed his nose into Roy’s hair, planting a kiss on the top of his head before he put a hand under Roy’s chin and gently drew his face up. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t even try. He didn’t have to.

Roy looked into Johnny’s eyes, and they told him plenty.


End file.
